


Starlight Mint Skin (And Other Imperfections)

by mintsinthemug



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Autism, Autism Spectrum, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:48:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5341358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintsinthemug/pseuds/mintsinthemug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You root yourself to the little things. Like the crinkle of mint wrappers or the scar by your eye. It grounds you, these imperfections. These chinks in the armor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. road maps that don't go anywhere but under your fingers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Antihistamine Approach](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253928) by [cosmiccastles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmiccastles/pseuds/cosmiccastles). 



There’s something ugly about the way Bro moves. Maybe it’s the jam-lock push of each step, the amount of force that seems to hit him from every way. You can say, no matter what causes it, it ain’t pretty. Wouldn’t win any Toddlers-in-Tiaras beauty pageants any time soon.

He looks at you as you consider this and you switch tracks. The thought of if he could ever look at you like you’re human crosses your mind more than once, twice, and you have to break the gaze. You look back to the TV, which is flicking in and out of color, the rat-tat-tat of guns and dialogue only blaring through one of the speakers. Bro has the decency to turn the whole system off as he jerks his way by. You watch him go, watch him spit out the window before he slams the bathroom door.

You realize your tea has been burning a red circle onto your thigh since he got home. You don’t remember when that was but the heat of the mug was sharp then. When you pull it from your leg, it sticks like you’re made of melting plastic instead of skin. For a second, that’s not an unreasonable thought. To test this theory, you scrape your nails across your stomach. All this does is bring up striping, red highways over older, white lines that remind you of mountain ranges.

The toilet flushes and you should really stop, but you’re still staring at the blood beading up in thin lines across your skin. When Bro comes out, he cusses and drops something that makes a loud crack against the floor. He gets you up on your feet and you almost step on his hair brush as he walks you into the the hall. It must’ve been what was dropped, not that you were wondering. When he jostles you into the bathroom, you realize you were scratching more than you though. Your whole damn stomach looks like a roadmap, jagged red lines and trickles of blood. 

The bath water is loud when it hits the tub and your hands shoot up to cover your eyes. You can’t explain why it helps, but it will always be a comfort. The vinyl tile creaked under Bro’s weight as he moves towards you to cover your ears. He probably knows you expect it, but still slides his too-big hands over your shoulders. He smoothes your hair out of the way and mutters something you can’t hear. His palms are worn out like good denim and they muddle the running water until it’s a sound you can handle. You make a small, high chirp in the back. Then you can’t really stop making it; you’re so focused on how it makes your throat numb that you don’t notice Bro leave until he cuts the water off.

When you remove your hands from your eyes, he’s wetting a washcloth and staring impatiently at the floor under your feet. You realize, with a violent stomach twist, there’s still drying blood on your stomach so you kick out of your pants and socks. 

Bro’s trying to be soft, to be gentle and mindful, dare you say caring, but this was never his thing. You forgive him for it, instead focus on making that noise again as you sink into the water. You wonder if you’re going to sleep tonight, if you want too. 

You decide it doesn’t matter. When the tub is drained and Bro’s wrapped white gauze around your stomach, led you back to the living room, you catch the bright blue number two on the cable box’s clock. 

He lays down the back of the futon and hands you a new mug, this one cold and smelling like fake oranges. Like the candy Dirk would carry in his pockets as a kid, stain his fingers and teeth with the sticky dye and artificial flavoring. You drink whatever’s in the mug; the grit of it clings to your gums. Laying down, you feel the burn finally set in and huff, which makes it worse. 

Bro ruffles your hair and doesn’t try to speak, so you don’t either. You know he’ll be sitting out on the fire escape until you pretend to fall asleep under the heavy blanket he covers you with. It’s your favorite, warm and thick, a comforting weight around you.

Today is a bad day. Everyday this week seems to be, but Bro’s been more than understanding lately. You’re glad he’s around and once you feel like you can talk without sounding like a bleating goat, without losing track of your sentences like some kind of shitty, runaway train, you’ll thank him for it. 

For now you just hum again. The TV is still off so you watch the clock change with your rotten-strawberry eyes and peel the skin from your lip. The smell of smoke drifts in from the open window and you wonder if he looks more elegant when no one’s watching. Probably not, but who’s to say he has to be?

These nights you decide it’s best not to think about it, because your movement has always been uglier.


	2. rotting hands and eagle eyes

When you wake up, it's because someone's at the door. You realize that it isn't that, not really. It's the fact that Bro has dropped your hand and is scrambling to answer it. You let your knuckles hit the wooden frame of the futon with a hollow clunk and you wonder how many times his thick skinned fingers brushed over them like sand paper rounding out your rough edges. The pain spikes up your hand and pools into the bone of your wrist to simmer and make you itch. 

"Is the youngest Strider still not up?" You cringe and feel the urge to both vomit and scream. He didn't tell you English was coming over. Maybe he didn't know. Jake has a funny way of being the most unbearable douchebag to ever put his feet on the same ground you walk on sometimes, you wouldn't put it past him to pop by uninvited. 

Bro just shrugs and spins to look at you when you whack your knuckles against the futon frame again. You hope they bruise. You hope you can blame it on Jake, or maybe even Bro. Bro, who's shades are off and sitting at the wooden arm by your head, his crisp golden eyes are tired and he squints them at you. It makes you feel bad enough to pull your hand under your blanket and shift to stand up. 

"I'll leave you two too it then," you mutter, a bit too loudly for just waking up. It makes your voice crack and your words feel too clunky in your mouth. After so many years of sick rhymes and wicked insults, you still aren't used to actually speaking out loud at a good steady pace. 

Jake grins at you and it makes you grimace, but he's too daft to notice or too thick to care. "Nonsense! This is your home, not mine. I was just wondering if Dirk wanted to go catch a film at the cinema, would you like to tag along?" He offers. His voice grates on your ears, your teeth, the very pores of your skin. 

If you say no you can stay home. You can crank through the free hours by setting up a darkroom in the bathroom instead of the closet. You could swipe a few cigarettes and smoke them out on the fire escape, snuff them out on the back of your hand. Maybe make some hot food and let the bowl burn your palms while you watch American Picker reruns. 

Apparently Bro catches on to what you could do faster than you do and nods. "Come on, lil man. It's good for you to get some fresh air and walk around on sea level. Let's go see a movie and get some lunch with Jake," 

Oh fuck no. It's one thing to chill on the futon while Bro and Jake watch DVDs and onDemand movies. But no. No you sure as hell are not going to a movie theatre and a restaurant with other people and above all Jake fucking English. 

"Don't forget John!" English chirps and you're ready to say pervious, aforementioned thoughts until you processed what English just said. John would be there too. He's probably waiting in the back of Jakes roofless, windowless rover shit vehicle as they speak. 

"Fine" you say and Bro grins in a way that almost has you stepping across the room to deck it off him. Instead you move like he does, jammed door and stuck frame push. You pull a heavy sweatshirt on over your bandages, which have very thin faint lines of dirt brown blood. You wonder if you can get away with taking them off and opening yourself up into a roadmap again. You think you'd get caught one way or another, once those highway lines turn into leaky rivers and soak through the fabric. 

Shoelaces are tucked under the tongue of your sharpie modified red converse and before you can say 'time to suffer' your being ushered down the stairs. 

Like you guessed (hoped), John has his head of wild black hair pointed at you as he watches cars fly by on the road. Your stomach twists as you slip on the leather but it's not unbearable yet so you just squirm until you feel slightly more grounded. You know John is watching you with hawk eye intensity and the second the rover roars it's way onto the road, he's got a hand open palmed in the no mans land between you and him. 

You don't want to take it for a number of admittedly stupid and childish reasons. Like you're still mad that he didn't take your advice about not dating Vriska,  
or Rose,   
or Jade,  
or Terezi.   
The fact that you were hurt he actually went to his stupid school dance instead of going with you and Karkat for late night burgers and movies. Maybe it's just the fact he makes your stomach curl and knit so tightly it flutters in your throat. 

You take his hand. His palm is smooth and soft from the myriad of hotel quality lotions on his bathroom counter. His fingers close over the rotten sore skin of your knuckles and you feel so self conscious that your ready to start peeling the skin off your lip until he presses and smooths the red band aid on your ring finger and you deflate into the seat. 

When the car parks, he shimmies out after you and doesn't let go of your hand. Now that he's close to you, you lean your head against his shoulder, cushioned by the soft plush of his thick blue hoodie. He smells like vanilla and cake batter and motherfucking starlight mints. You know he has some on him, he always does. Maybe he'll slip you some during the movie. 

He pushes his head against yours and you blink before straightening yourself up. English is staring at you with that curious smile that makes you red in the ears, but you stare back until he claps his hands. "Right, on to the film!" He says too brightly. John laughs next to you and pulls you a little closer. 

Bro and Jake argue over who's paying for concessions, Jake insisting loudly and playfully that it's his treat and he's got it until Bro backs down huffily. You snag a pack of Twizzlers and hit Bro in the shoulder with them, lips tightly sealed. John snickers again, his shoulder shaking against yours. "Dave be nice," he teases, nudging you and making you stumble slightly. Bro watches with a smug face and a quicker brow, but you just shove the Twizzlers at him again. 

 

The movie is something too long and with too many plot points to follow. Your sitting on the edge of a row with John blacking you from everyone else like a wall. You've got one hand clenched in his hoodie sleeve and the other propping your head up on the arm rest. Your legs are bent and stretched awkwardly, one tucked under you and the other kicked up on the empty seat in front of you. Jake insisted you all sit up front where it's empty so it's twice as loud and way too bright. Even behind your shades your squinting, ready to close your eyes altogether and stumble blindly to the restroom to wait out the rest of it. 

When a hand is pressed over the one on Johns arms, you jerk hard enough to rattle your seat. His frown becomes a bit more serious and it makes you look away. Though once he shifts back into his seat you look again, only to see him whispering something to Bro. There's a very short, very quiet conversation that seems to slip under the noise and how can anyone hear anything under this noise? But before you can do anything, not that you can think of anything to do, he's got an arms across your back and is pushing you head again this chest with his free hand. You gratefully cooperate, squeezing your eyes shut and letting him practically carry you out of the theater. The hall is much quieter and smells less like popcorn and candy and people. He sits you on a bench near the bathrooms, still holding tightly to you. Why hasn't he let go? 

You realize with a bit more than a twinge of embarrassment that it has something to do with how you've got his sleeve in a death grip again. Slowly you let the now crumpled fabric go and lock your fingers together. He cards a hand through your hair once before reaching into his pocket and pulling out-

Oh fuck yes. 

Two starlight mints. With a knowing grin, he offers on to you and watches you jump for it. The wrapper is shoved into your pocket and you both pop the soft treats into your mouths. Hell. Fucking. Yes. This is amazing. The greatest. And you make sure to tell him so in more words than you've used all day. He just laughs his loud, full laugh and starts up a conversation about how stupid the movie was anyways. 

And that's how you spend the next two hours, curled halfway into him, eating just about all the mints he had brought along. His hands find your hair between conversations about math and science and terrible movies, and you sink into him with that flutter in your throat. You bet Rose could tell you what it was if you asked her, she's got a bit of medical knowledge, right?

When the movie lets out, you catch yourself and pull away before this got anymore heart achingly couple-y. Bro and Jake come out hand in hand with you pack of Twizzlers unopened in Bros hand. He presses it between your rough palms and studies your face for a few moment until you stick out your tongue. At that, he snorts and ruffles your hair. 

John goes for your hand again, slipping his fingers between yours but that twist in your stomach comes back with a feeling that tastes like something you aren't allowed to have. 

You pull away and pick at the candy package in your hands. 

The mint wrappers crackle when you sit down in the seat of Jakes very hated car, but you don't want to get rid of them. To pretend they aren't making the noise like breaking glass against your leg, you bite your nails. You can feel John watching you with those blue eagle eyes, but whenever you look at him, he's turned away. So you always turn back and stare at your knees, biting your fingers raw and turning your hands into rotten bones. 

Those eagle eyes cause even more damage though. The way they bore into you.


	3. young eyes and sharp tongues

The sun was bright in the sky and you weren't sure when it made the switch from night to day but you know you haven't slept yet. You just tossed and turned until your covers made your skin itch and then camped out at your computer. At some point Rose got online and that's when, in some sleeplessly drunken decision, you spilled any beans you had about John Egbert. 

TG: so

TT: So?

TG: so what does it mean

TT: Is it not obvious?   
TT: Honestly, I thought you'd realize it in the midst of your rambles. 

TG: realize *what*? 

TT: That you still have romantic feelings for John. 

You frown, wanting to feel surprised but you're still just as tired eyed and empty stomached as you were before you started talking to Rose. Somehow, it felt like she was telling you something you already knew. Though you hadn't felt specifically 'romantic' towards John since you were thirteen.

TG: yeah thanks

TT: What? No stutters? No denial?

TG: nah

TG: im going to go get some food 

TG: tell your vampire girlfriend i said hi

TT: Do you not want to talk about this? I know it's been hard but-

You don't read the rest of her sentence, the pastel purple you usually sought out as comfort suddenly made you want to rip your hair out. So you flipped your laptop shut and stood, you bones crackling like bubble wrap as you stretch. Your knees were stiffer than you thought, causing you to stumble. There's the smell of something warm lingering in the air and you find Bro splayed out on the futon with a plate on his chest. His unshielded eyes flick to you and you think how he looks so much younger this way. The thought that always jars you is the fact that he's not even that much older than you are.

The way the thought shakes your bones makes you look away. He must notice this, because he shakes the plate slightly and lifts it up vaguely in your direction. "Pop tart?" He offers, voice a bit muffled through the food in his mouth. You look back and try not to grin as you grab it, finding its still kind of warm. "Hell yes I'll take a pop tart," 

His lips twitch and he pulls his legs into mountains, leaving space between him and the arm of the futon for you. You want to shake your head, the 'no thanks' is already on your tongue. But you owe it to him. He's been worried because, if you were being honest with yourself?- you've been terrible lately. Everything has been too much too soon and you aren't necessarily sure why. So you take a bite of poptart and slide into the space. 

He's watching something but you don't place it immediately. There's noise and flashes of colors and a nice big house with granite counters. Women are bustling around and saying things you don't catch.

"Real Housewives" Bro says and you nod. Oh. Oh. It seems so obvious now. At this point you feel alright with not knowing right away, this is something that won't be changing any time soon so you've decided not to waste any energy caring about it. 

The shows plays but there's something tense in the air, something caught in your throat, or maybe it's his. Either way it has you running your tongue over your teeth. You wonder if you could get away with throwing the window open and climbing onto the fire escape. 

You're on the edge of your seat, ready to fulfill this, probably not totally thought through, desire she Bro finally speaks.

"I'm sorry about dragging you to the movies. I should've known you'd freak out like that,"

Your raw fingers dig into the skin of your knees. "I didn't freak out," you snap back, ignoring his apology. If you've learned anything, you've learned most people hate when their apology is ignored. Sadly, Dirk is not most people and he barrels on even though you just want him to shut up please. 

"You had to leave the theater. How long has it been since you were able to see a movie all the way through, theater or not?" He asks, he isn't waiting for you to answer but you know it and it burns on your tongue. "I just wanted you to get out of the house for once, see your friend," 

"You didn't know John would be there," you point out, quietly and bitterly. Because who is he, your therapist? He thinks he knows what's best for you? You're the one who knows everything about your mental state, not Rose, not John, and especially not him. 

"I wanted you to get out of the house," he repeats, moving to sit up. He pushes back his hair and you pointedly don't look at him. Why should you? Social contract probably but you were never good at that. "How about telling me that next time, instead of dragging me along to some stupid movie with your stupid boy toy-" You stop, you can see Dirk stiffen out of the corner of your eye. 

"Don't talk about Jake like that," Bro says, but says isn't the right word because it feels like an order. Somehow this just eggs you on. 

"Why shouldn't I? Apparently this is the only way you'll fucking spend some time trying to 'help me'. When I badmouth your horrible boyfriend. It doesn't fucking matter anyways, he's just going to-"

"Dave," Without really thinking, you snap your eyes to him. That's how you both stay, staring and seething at each other until you finally stand up, dropping your half eaten breakfast on the table. "I'm meeting Rose and Maryam so you can quit worrying about me being a shut in. Don't bother getting up, I'm taking the bus. Let's hope I don't have another freak out," You sneer the word and you know he regrets saying it. 

You can't help but feel like a child throwing a tantrum when you slam your door. The feeling is pushed aside by the slight panic of messaging Rose and asking if she wanted to meet for coffee somewhere in the next hour. Of course she says sure, says she'll bring Kanaya along, says she's glad your initiating activities for yourself. 

When you leave, the futon has been deserted, the TV turned off. As the front door clicks closed behind you, you find ticket stubs in your pocket. 

2 years. The answer to Dirks question was 2 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry (slightly late) Christmas! I hope everyone is having happy holidays, my dearest apologies for the delay on this chapter, also so sorry for the lack of length. Things got really busy with the holiday madness so I hope I can update more as things get back into a routine. Thank you so much for all the kudos and positive feed-back!! Happy Holidays!


	4. gritty tongues and soft sugar smiles: these things keep you grounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You slide into the chair on the empty side of the table and are somewhat pleased and a little irked to find a coffee waiting on you. "Am I really that predictable?" You ask, frowning down at the drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! Please leave some feedback if you have any, it makes my week tbh. 
> 
> Also come say hi to me on my tumblr!! @virtualmarrow

Somehow, by some impossible defiance of physics and traffic laws, the Wonder Girls beat you to the coffee shop. It's a small place, with high tables against all the walls and a circle of plush couches smack in the center. The two are sat, both with ruler straight backs and clipped smiles, at a table by the front window. Though they're too engrossed in their conversation to notice you pass them. 

You slide into the chair on the empty side of the table and are somewhat pleased and a little irked to find a coffee waiting on you. "Am I really that predictable?" You ask, frowning down at the drink. 

Rose looks up, takes the pen from between her teeth and shrugs. "Predictability is not a necessarily bad trait, Dave," She responds before making a mark in the worn out paperback on the table. Kanaya nods along, watching you with a soft set of dark eyes. Her hands are folded on the tabletop, you notice the silver on her nails are chipping. 

"How are things going?" She asks you, and you don't know what she's referring to exactly so you just shrug and say "They're going," 

The desired effect of this statement was to have her nod, knowingly like she does sometimes, and start a different topic of conversation. Instead she raises a carefully crafted eyebrow. "And how are these thing? A good sort of going?" 

You sigh, slurp your drink just to see the way Rose frowns, and set it down again. "What do you want me to say? They're going. Isn't that enough?" 

"You had a fight with your brother again," Rose chimes. "So I'd say they aren't going anywhere but downhill," She doesn't cast a glance anywhere so neither you nor Kanaya know how to respond when she adds "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I guess," you finally say, because Christ Rose is good at making silence deafening. "Can I stay at yours tonight?" The questions slips without you even realizing it had crossed your mind. At this Rose finally looks up, both eyebrows raised to you in surprise. "Of course. Kanaya?" She looks to her partner, who is nodding her own head mutely. 

Kanaya Maryam is a beautiful woman and if you both weren't hella gay and hella not interested, you're sure you would be as head over heels as Rose is. She's tall and slim framed, dark skinned and pale hair. Colors contrast nicely for her, especially on camera and you will never regret hiring her for a shoot when you first met her. Her fashion sense is impeccable and her intelligence will forever wow you. Rose sure did pick a keeper this time. 

You follow them both, letting them drift ahead a few steps and talk professionally about this or that or something else. Sometimes Rose will laugh, tipping her chin up and closing her eyes, and Kanaya will hide her cheeks in her hands. It's a sickening display and you hope you'll be able to complain about it for a long long time. 

They live on the second floor in a creaky building that used to be a warehouse but was renovated to be an apartment complex near the college. The floors are always dusty and none of the walls match in color. Their door is mostly frosted glass and painted silver, it scratches the floor when Rose swings it open and let's you in. The rest of the apartment is clean and organized while also being a minefield of knitting needles, papers, and yarn. You shift awkwardly by the TV as Kanaya removes the web of teal yarn from the couch and offers for you to sit. You do, and find yourself running your fingers over the soft, plush throw blanket. 

The three of you watch reality TV and drink some kind of minty tea Kanaya cooks up for you. Time was never something you were too great at so it surprises you when Rose let's out a small yawn and mentions that it's nearly midnight. She leaves and reappears in pajamas with a pillow and blanket under each arm. You sister helps you set up the couch and turn it into some DIY level bed before kissing your cheek in a way that's disgustingly motherly. You make sure to tell her so and get a poke in the ribs. 

The door to their bedroom closes and then you're left standing in the dark. You guess you could turn the tv back on if you really wanted to, but by the time that thought has registered you're burrowing under your blankets and pushing your head hard into the pillow. 

From the Lalonde/Maryam kitchen, living room, and front room combo, they share two walls and a ceiling with their neighbors. The one on the wall with the TV is some drug addict who plays weird psychedelic rap, something that has begun to writhe and slip like snakes through the wall now. The other wall belongs to a girl with a sharp voice named Terezi Pyrope who clicks her cane on everything and shouts at stuffed animals. You don't know who lives above them but every once and a while there's a disturbing thump and raspy shouting. The muffled cussing could make even the most jaded photographer blush.

You fall asleep to these thoughts, legs tangled up in yarn and blankets as you press red crescents into your forearms and teeter on the edge of smothering yourself in the couch pillows. 

You wake with a sickening sense of floating and even though your hands aren't shaking they feel like they should be. Your throat lurches towards your tongue and its early enough that the windows are wet with dew. No one is awake except for you so you slip into yesterday's pants and leave a post it note with a dick drawn on it as a thank you. The door echoes in the hallway and you just stand there rubbing your hands together for a while. 

There's a muffled click clack before the next door opens and then you are looking down into the milky red eyes of Terezi Pyrope. She's got on the gaudiest neon green and lavender robe you've ever encountered with hot pink sweats. There's a moment where you're both silent, breathing in each others rancid morning breath, which makes your nose wrinkle and your throat lurch again but you don't want to ruin the serenity in her face. Her thin hair is tangled into Boy Scout knots and the cherry red needs touching up, her blonde roots already halfway to her ears. 

And then she's pressing a to-go thermos of something into your hand. Her cane knocks into your knee as she turns and click cracks her way back into her apartment. After her door closes you realize she hadn't said a word and this was the quietest interaction you've ever had with her. 

You take a big swig of whatever she gave you as you reach the side walk and nearly gag. It's pure lemon juice and something cherry with the consistency of cough syrup and grit that feels like sugar. 

It serves it's purpose though and by the time you've crossed back into your side of town you feel significantly more Dave than you did when you woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been exactly ten zillion and dick years since I wrote for this. I've been pretty stable this year so it's hard to write for something originally based around my feelings of being unstable. 
> 
> But the dam finally broke and I've been feeling horribly foggy. Drinking super weirdly flavored/textured things is actually shrouding exercise for me. This time is was Cheerwine/Pinapple juice/Sugar/and honey. Ew. But it did the trick I guess. Still feel like shit.


End file.
